damn fine booty
by cicerno
Summary: Stormcloak or Imperial, the Dragonborn is neither - belongs to a faction far worse: the Thalmor justiciars. Her past follows her, especially with the ambassador.


**A/N: this has been stuck in my head for days and i can't get it out. I think i'm rating it mature for future chapters but idk yet tbh? I'll probably update it later if possible. Enjoy the gay! An OC is going to appear as well - quite intensively, since imo Skyrim is lacking Thalmor. Anyways it's been seriously a while since i've written fanfic & english isn't my first language so forgive the occasional fuckup. My intent is to update this once in two weeks, but i'm not sure about that. **

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**HELGEN 4 E 201.**

Lorin glares at the filthy Nords in her carriage – she shouldn't be here. Especially since she's an Ex-Thalmor and certainly not a Stormcloak. Fuck the imperial bureaucracy **.** She'd been intent upon rejoining the Dominion in Skyrim (recruitment office in Cyrodiil had sent her here with a letter) and she even got a special permit from the Imperial Douane.

Of course, those Nordic **fuckwits** didn't even look at it. Illiterate perhaps? **Likely**.

Meanwhile, a Nord is being melancholic about his past in this tiny hamlet and she regrets having her hands bound – a punch in his face would've quieted him easily. Not to mention the whiny prick fearing death. Renewing your belief last minute doesn't help. Men.

"Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." She follows the Nord's glance – and whistles. Elenwen. Looking good as always. Well, she hadn't expected her. How long has it been since she last met her? It must be more than twenty years. And that unexpected encounter had been limited to but a simple nod when passing each other.

The Nord frowns – "I see no reason to whistle."

"Ambassador Elenwen's got some damn fine booty on her." Lorin cracks a grin, deliberately ignoring the angry Stormcloak glares.

"You know **her**?" His voice is incredulous, eyebrows lifted.

"Yeah, I do – we met each other during our training as a justiciar." What Lorin doesn't say is that they were best friends, and **more** than that.

"By Talos!" Anger is compressed in an exclamation and the Nord spits in her direction. She shrugs and spits back.

Finally, she can jump out of the cart. The prick runs and dies. Which was expected, and served only as more delay to her opportunity to bullshit herself out of this.

"Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?" Nords aren't exactly the most intelligent race – so much has become obvious during her short stay in Skyrim. "Lorin Adaire, ex- Justiciar of the Aldmeri Dominion," she declares confidently – seeing the scribe's eyes widen. "Captain, she's not on the list – what do we do?"

"Forget the list, she goes to the block." Her smile falls. Imperial bureaucracy can suck my metaphorical dick. 

"Halt!" a female voice rings out; one she distinctly recognizes as Elenwen's. Seems like her ex (ex would be a big word – they never ended it, just went different paths) after all noticed her. "By my authority as Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim I demand this prisoner be transferred to me, along with her goods."

The man Ralof labeled as the Military Governor nods sharply to the Captain – who sighs and goes searching in one of the carriages for her elven armor and her money. Elenwen beckons her with one stiff gesture and orders her ties to be cut loose. Lorin dons the armor and raises a brow in question.

"What the fuck is it you're doing here, Adaire?" Elenwen's sharp voice hisses into her ear, her eyes fixed on the execution block.

"What a frigid welcome, **Madame Ambassador**. Re-enlisting, of course."

"Last I knew you were **whoring** around in the Imperial city. Besides, shouldn't you thank me?" The venom seeps from her voice, she certainly doesn't take kindly to seeing Lorin.

"You've been keeping tabs on me? **Control freak**." Both turn to glare at each other, 'till Lorin sarcastically adds, "Thanks."

"What in Oblivion is that?" Tullius screams and Lorin takes but one look to the sky to recognize she's got to run. Sprint and sprint she does, never looking behind her – considering the fact she hasn't been torched yet as a good sign. Ultimately, she crashes on her knees in some other small town, exhausted. The moss on cobblestones is the last she sees before passing out.


End file.
